


good signs and good luck

by stirringsofconsciousness



Series: Berte and Krugkoppe [3]
Category: Original Work, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jewish, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stirringsofconsciousness/pseuds/stirringsofconsciousness
Summary: The boys fell silent and stared at her. Usually Berte did not speak up so loudly, or really speak to most of them except Avrum and Kreindel, her closest friends. Perhaps she had violated an unwritten social law by saying anything at all. But unwritten social laws are just as silly as customs that there are no reason for, she consoled herself.“What’s this? Berte loves Krugkoppe!” Reuven jeered at her. “When’s the wedding, Froi Krugkoppe?”Oh, she thought. *That* was why no one spoke up to defend him.(a prequel to "as the good book says")
Relationships: Archie Andrews & Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones, Berte/Krugkoppe, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: Berte and Krugkoppe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577683
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	good signs and good luck

**Author's Note:**

> a completely unintended prequel. 
> 
> thanks to whatwillthegirlbecome for drawing this story out of me with her fantastic questions, and to village_skeptic and the aptly-named lovelee for their excellent beta-reading.

If there was a word to describe Berte, it was “practical”.

There was no reason to change things just because someone else thought it so. She had always eaten lunch outside along with the friends of Avrum, her best friend since childhood, ever since they were tiny children walking to school together for the first time. There was no reason to stop now that he and his friends were older, each getting a bar mitzvah, a celebration surrounding the time they were first called up to get an aliyah at the reading of the Torah.

(Another word to describe Berte was “fair”. Fairness was important. It wasn’t fair that for boys, to mark their becoming a man, they got to take part in services and get a fancy dinner and a tallis and tefillin and everything else that marked becoming a man, a person who could be respected. When girls became women, they got cramps and headaches and a new reason to learn why the rag-basket was always kept full. It wasn’t fair at all. That women were exempt from attending prayer services did not seem like an equal trade-off.)

She could have sat with the girls inside, of course, including her seatmate Velvela, of whom she was quite fond. But she enjoyed where she sat, she enjoyed the boys’ chatter, and it wasn’t as though there was a rule against it. There was a custom of boys sitting with boys outside and girls sitting with girls inside, but a custom could be broken, given a good enough reason. And her reason was simple: she liked sitting with the boys, and the boys liked her sitting with them. 

(“Argumentative” was a word that could be used to describe her, too. She wasn’t  _ dafke _ , headstrong and defiant for no reason. She merely wanted to know the reason why, and if the reason wasn’t good enough, then why should she be considered to be in the wrong?)

Really, the only problem Berte had about sitting with the boys at lunch is that it brought her into closer proximity than she’d like with Reuven, the butcher’s son. All of the boys were likely to make jokes, but Reuven’s jokes were the most likely to be at the expense of others, a quality Berte detested above all else. 

Like right now, as Reuven chided the quality of poor Krugkoppe’s clothes, when everyone knew (at least everyone who Berte’s mother Anja has told) that Krugkoppe’s mother and sister had left the village of Taykh Taykh to live with her family in Lvov. It was not right to mock him for that, and Berte didn’t understand why the other boys seem to laugh along with the cruelty of the joke. Surely there were better jokes to be made and to laugh at. 

“ -- And the state of your hat, Krugkoppe! No woman in her right mind would ever marry a  _ schlepper _ like you!” 

Suddenly, Berte could not take any more. “I would,” she snapped, to make Reuven shut up. 

The boys fell silent and stared at her. Usually Berte did not speak up so loudly, or really speak to most of them except Avrum and Kreindel, her closest friends. Perhaps she had violated an unwritten social law by saying anything at all. But unwritten social laws are just as silly as customs that there are no reason for, she consoled herself.

“What’s this? Berte loves Krugkoppe!” Reuven jeered at her. “When’s the wedding, Froi Krugkoppe?”

Oh, she thought.  _ That  _ was why no one spoke up to defend him.

Berte felt her cheeks turn red. She did not love Krugkoppe, and had no intention of marrying him. Honestly, if there was anyone she had planned to marry at all (and she did not actually feel particularly enthusiastic about the idea), it would be Avrum, who had lived next door to her since they were both born. His parents and her parents were always joking about it, to the point that it felt expected when they were both adults. If the whole thing made Berte feel a bit like a milch cow, at least his parents are nice and would never chastise her if her hair ribbons fell loose or not all of her buttons were buttoned.

But now, even Avrum had joined in with laughing at her, and Berte did not feel particularly like marrying him ever, even if he turned out to be the Mashiach.

It was, oddly enough, Krugkoppe who came to her rescue. “Yes, of course,” he snorted sarcastically through his long nose, “Berte is passionately in love with me. And the wedding will be -- “ He jumped off the bench and strode towards Berte, several seats down, and then took off the grey knitted cap Reuven had been mocking and handed it to her. “Behold, you are consecrated to me with this hat according to the laws of Moses and Israel,” he intoned dryly in the formal Hebrew they used only when praying. His exaggerated gestures and language made everyone laugh. 

Her blush receding, superceded by her laughter, Berte repeated the phrase back to him, barely remembering to change the conjugations to female verbs. The boys whooped around them, cheering on their little play. 

Krugkoppe put the cap on her head and gingerly gave her a peck on the cheek. Then he picked up his school slate and tossed it on the cobblestones, cracking it.

“Krugkoppe, you’ll get in trouble!” Berte protested. 

“What do I care about trouble, now that I have such a bride?” he said back to her.

From her other side, Avrum started clapping. “Siman tov u’mazal tov u’mazal tov v’siman tov,” he sang, and the other boys formed a circle around them and sang and danced with all the enthusiasm and cheer of an actual wedding. 

In the center of the circle with her, Krugkoppe caught her eye. “Is this all right?” he asked in an undertone, barely audible over the boys’ song. 

Berte felt so full of laughter and joy, she could barely breathe. “Of course!” she said. “It’s marvelous!”

Krugkoppe smiled at her — not the ridiculous rictus he’d adopted to make the other boys laugh, but a smaller, sincere smile, one just for her, pure happiness at seeing her display of happiness. 

For a moment, Berte froze.

Oh, she thought.  _ This _ is why people want to get married.

At that moment, the teacher rang the bell signaling the end of lunch, and the dancing broke up. The boys rushed into the classroom, some of them joking, “mazal tov Berte” or “mazal tov, Froi Krugkoppe,” as they rushed by her. Reuven scowled in her direction, but Berte resolutely ignored him. Krugkoppe lingered a moment longer than the others, but then walked inside ahead of her. 

Velvela looked up as Berte entered the classroom and slid in at the desk next to her. “The boys were especially exuberant today, weren’t they?”

“They have fun,” Berte said, still happy and flushed. “It is always all jokes with them.”

Velvela frowned suddenly, her eyebrows drawing down. “What’s that  _ schmatta _ doing on your head? Another joke?” 

Berte reached up in surprise to find Krugkoppe’s hat still on her head. She swept it off quickly with one hand. “Yes, just part of a game.”

“You wouldn’t catch me dead wearing that ugly old thing, no matter how much fun it was,” Velvela said critically. 

The teacher started speaking then, distracting Berte from her plan to toss the cap to Krugkoppe, and she stuffed it in her pocket. I’ll give it to him later, she thought, before the lecture drove the thought out of her mind. 

\---

Perle was supposed to wait for Berte after school, so they could walk home together. That was the new rule that their mother had instituted in the last few weeks. It was one of those rules for which Berte was never given a reason: allegedly, if pressed, their mother would say that the rule was for Berte’s benefit. But Berte had not asked for this, nor was there any real reason that Berte needed to be walked home.

It was, of course, for something Perle had done. Perle had snuck out of the house one night to meet with her friends. Perle had been seen talking to a goyische boy. Perle had talked back to their mother, so much so that before last week’s Shabbat dinner, Anja had slapped her across her face, her handprint stark and red against Perle’s fair skin, visible even by candlelight. 

It would be so much easier for everyone if Anja could just admit that Perle had done something wrong and walking Berte home was her punishment. But Anja could never admit to flaws, especially not in her eldest daughter, and Perle could not apologize, especially not to her mother, so Berte was stuck like wheat between two large stones, being ground to flour between them. 

Berte stood outside the schoolhouse, wrapped in her winter clothes, waiting for her sister, but there was no sight of her.

“Berte, would you like to come to my house today?” Velvela asked her. “Our new cook just arrived from France, and I need to put her through her paces.”

“I need to wait for my sister,” Berte said. “You go on ahead. Perhaps I’ll come by later.”

“Do come! I’ll save you some treats,” Velvela promised, clasping Berte’s hands. Beside them, 

Krugkoppe walked out of the building, bareheaded despite the October chill. “What’s wrong with him?” Velvela asked with a grimace. “Is he too thick to feel the cold?”

Berte grimaced guiltily, but she did not want to explain why Krugkoppe’s hat was in her pocket, nor why she had been wearing it earlier. 

“Go on ahead,” she repeated. “I’ll see you later.”

Another twenty minutes passed, Berte shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she waited. Perle’s teacher walked out and did a double-take when he saw Berte still standing there. 

“Tell your sister I hope she feels better,” he said. 

“Hmm?” Berte asked, confused.

“She wasn’t in class today, is she ill?”

Berte recovered quickly, tilting her head to one side with a smile. “Oh yes, she is, poor thing. Is there any work I should bring home for her?” 

\---

Rather than go directly home, Berte went to Velvela’s house and ate pastries while she listened to Velvela and her mother and the cook converse in French, concentrating on the unfamiliar words. Someday, Berte vowed, she too would learn French, and travel, and sit at a cafe all by herself and know how to order delicious things, far away from Taykh Taykh.

Velvela’s mother asked her to stay for supper, but Berte graciously declined, knowing her mother would be waiting for her, ready to harangue her for not being an effective keeper for her sister. Still, as she walked towards her house, her feet dragged. She did not feel either like being yelled at by her mother or having to confront her sister about her whereabouts today -- or, worse, being lied to by her sister. 

Oddly, the house was dark. Berte hung up her wraps in the entrance and called out to her mother and sister, but there was no response. 

A pot of soup was on the back of the stove, but not finished. On the kitchen table was a meal set out for her -- the usual weekday rye bread, herring, and potatoes, and also one of the season’s last fresh apples, one her mother evidently had not thought worth drying up in their attic to keep during the winter and was thriftily offering to Berte as a treat. A note in her mother’s neat script was set next to her plate, telling Berte to set up the oats for tomorrow’s porridge and then go straight to bed. 

Where was her mother? Where was her sister? Often her father was at his store this late, but her mother was only ever this late on market-days. And Perle was never out in the evening like this, not without her. 

Berte’s hands balled up into anxious fists, her fingernails pressing against the thin skin of her palms, but she soothed herself by reminding herself whatever had happened could not be too bad, or else her mother would not have had the time to set up her supper, or to give her chores to do. 

She ate her supper, though she lacked appetite, then filled the pot with the oats and sugar and carefully banked the stove so that it would not be disrupted the whole night through. She did not know how to finish her mother’s soup, so that stayed untouched.

Berte drummed her fingers on the table. The sun wasn’t even fully set yet. How could she possibly be expected to go to bed so early? She was twelve, not a child.

Berte drummed her fingers on the table for a moment, then walked to the front door and peered out the peephole. No one was there. 

Her eyes fell upon her wraps, reminding her that she still needed to give Krugkoppe back his hat. It would be easier to do so without so many prying eyes around. But her mother had said to stay home...

Clearly her mother was expecting to be out late, if she was asking Berte to set up the morning porridge. Berte could deliver the hat and be back before Anja even noticed.

She smoothed back her hair from her face in a decisive motion and started putting on her wraps.

\---

In the twilight she saw Avrum bouncing a ball off the side of his house, though he paused to wave at her. Emboldened, she walked over to him. “Avrum, do you know where Krugkoppe would be about now?”

“Maybe, what for?” he asked back cheerfully. 

“I have something of his I need to return.”

“A wedding ring, Froi Krugkoppe?”

She glared at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugged. “He might still be by the river, Krugkoppe usually goes there to read in the afternoons. Though...” He trailed off as he looked at the darkening sky. “He might be getting his father now...Whatever you have, I can give to him,” Avrum offered abruptly.

“No, I’m -- it’s my responsibility,” Berte said, feeling shy.

“Well, at least let me go with you. It’s not safe for you to go there alone.”

“There’s not a place in Taykh Taykh that isn’t safe,” Berte said, taken aback. “We’ve been over every inch of this town as children.”

“Yes,” Avrum said, uncomfortable. “But we’re not children anymore, are we?”

\---

Berte and Avrum headed off through the tiny crisscrossing of streets that was Taykh Taykh, entering the market area. Berte was nervous as they passed her father's shop. What if he was there and saw them? But the shop was closed and dark.

“Krugkoppe’s father is probably at the tavern by now,” Avrum said by way of explanation, once they had passed most of the shops. 

“The tavern?” Berte’s forehead wrinkled. “Why there?” Though any man was technically allowed there -- like nearly all the taverns in their country, it was owned and operated by a Jew, in this town Velvela’s father -- it was known to be exclusively the haunts of the non-Jewish men in town, who would get sick there with the drinking of vodka.

Avrum gave her a look. "Why else does one go there? To drink, sometimes to find jobs from the goyim. Mostly to drink."

A thousand questions came to Berte's lips, but the only one she asked was, "Does Krugkoppe drink, too?" 

"Never," Avrum said. "But sometimes his father drinks too much, and Krugkoppe has to help him home." 

That too opened up questions, but Avrum -- her most cheerful friend, a boy she had seen and spoken to nearly every day of her life -- didn't seem likely to answer them. It felt odd -- not odd, frustrating, upsetting, terrifying -- to realize that he had seen areas of an adult world that she had never realized existed, that she was shut out of because of her sex. 

Only a few buildings ahead of them now was the tavern, but before Berte could ask about their approach -- before they could make a plan -- the main doors opened, spilling noise and light out into the night. Krugkoppe jumped outside first, wearing his coat but with nothing covering his dark hair, followed by two beefy Poles. Once Krugkoppe had turned around, they shoved another figure at him, who stumbled into Krugkoppe's arms before sagging down. 

"That's Freyum, Krugkoppe's father," Avrum whispered to Berte.

A very well-dressed man followed them outside, his collar turned up against the cold. "It's good of you to come look after your wastrel father," he said to Krugkoppe in Polish. Over his father's body, Krugkoppe looked the man in the eyes but said nothing. "He must be proud of you. Use your  _ Yiddisher kop _ and don't let him come in again unless he has the money to pay for his drink."

From the way the man dropped into Yiddish, Berte realized he must be a Jew, too. The tavern-owner. Velvela's father.

He turned to go back in. "But boss, the swine didn't pay!" shouted one of the Polish men.

The man -- Velvela's father -- shrugged his shoulders. "He's too drunk to feel anything. Take your cut from the son instead."

Berte gasped, and made a move to go forward. Avrum caught her arm and put his hand over his mouth. "It'll be worse for him if they see you," he said in a low voice. "Keep quiet."

Krugkoppe didn't respond at first. Instead, he put his father's prone body down on the cobblestones with gentle care. Only then did he jerk his chin up, his arms by his side, defenseless. "How many hits, Hyram?" he said in Yiddish. "Can't be that many, your boys don't know how to count very high."

"Little fucker," Velvela's father said back in Yiddish, and then to his men, in Polish, "just two. Freyem's a good customer when he actually pays. Leave the boy's mouth alone, it's the only part of him that's of any use." 

The larger of the two beefy Poles immediately grabbed Krugkoppe's arms, while the smaller cocked his fist. Berte thought she'd scream, but Avrum's hand covered her mouth before she could let out a sound. The Pole's punch looked as though it were headed straight for his eye: Krugkoppe moved along with the fist, so that it glanced off his cheekbone, but still, the swelling showed almost instantly. The second punch landed in his belly, and he fell to the ground, splattering his clothes with mud. 

"Don't let Freyem back here unless he has money to pay, boy," Velvela's father said to Krugkoppe, a small smile on his face from seeing the violence he had ordered. Then he and his men went back inside. The doors to the tavern closed, shutting out most of the light and the noise from inside. Only then did Avrum let Berte go, as he rushed forward toward his friend. Trembling, Berte followed behind him. 

"I'm glad I taught you how to take a punch," Avrum said.

"I'm glad they're too drunk to aim well," Krugkoppe replied. "You here to help?"

Avrum nodded. On the count of three, they hoisted Krugkoppe's father's dead weight between the two of them. 

"Go home, Berte," Avrum said, as he arranged Krugkoppe's father's arms. "Before they see you."

For the first time, Krugkoppe seemed to register Berte's presence. His face was cold, closed-off, so different from the jolly boy who had joked with her that lunchtime. 

Berte couldn't possibly give him his hat now. As a gesture, it was too small. "Do you need...anything?" she asked quietly. 

"I have everything I can imagine having," Krugkoppe said. "Go home, Berte."

It was the very least she could do, to fulfill the only request she could. 

\---

Berte made her way back to her home in the dark as quickly as she could, her mind full of what she'd just witnessed. At least, she consoled herself, she could take some time to process when she got home by writing in her diary.

Naturally, of course, before she even got close to the front door, she could hear her mother shouting at Perle. 

Berte took in a deep breath, steeled her shoulders, and resolved to face her parents with the same courage that Krugkoppe had faced those Polish thugs. Though honestly, her mother was scarier. 

It was worse, of course. It was better, in that she wasn't hit, but at least that would heal and go away. But her mother's anger, her father's face, her sister sobbing on the chair -- it imprinted on her, the consequences of what she had done. 

Her mother broke off mid-word and pivoted to her other daughter. "And you? Where have you been all this time? Sneaking off like your sister?"

“I was off exploring with Avrum,” Berte said weakly.

“Exploring? Exploring your bodies, no doubt. Master of the Universe, what have I done to deserve having two ungrateful  _ nafkes _ for daughters!”

Berte bowed her head and took her turn to be yelled at, letting her mother's pain fall down on her like a bitter winter rainfall. Both she and Perle were banned from leaving the house after school or on the Shabbat for at least three months, banned from having pocket money, banned from seeing their friends. Banned from even speaking to boys, for the boys were causing them to act so crazily. And Berte and Perle were the most ungrateful, selfish, inconsiderate, awful daughters to have ever lived in the village of Taykh Taykh for the trouble they caused. 

(A tiny part of Berte’s mind, coolly observant even as tears streamed down her face, noted that this stream of invective could have been avoided. If only she had not gone home and followed the instructions laid out for her, she could have plausibly denied that she had gone home at all, claimed to have stayed for dinner with Velvela.)

Finally, it was over, and the sisters went off to their bedroom. They were not locked in, though that threat had been made. 

“But why, Perle?” Berte asked once they were finally alone together in their bedroom, though given how thin the walls in their house were (and their mother’s penchant for listening), she kept her voice low. "Why did you skip school?"

Perle didn’t answer directly. She sprawled on the bed and moaned, “I'm in love, and no one understands how hard my life is.”

Berte rubbed her back sympathetically, making all the most encouraging noises she could, but in the privacy of her own mind, Berte thought that there were much more difficult situations to be in than mere love. 

\---

Anja walked the girls to school the next day, her eye on them like a hawk. Perle said not a word, and neither did Anja. It was up to Berte to make conversation, but all her attempts fell flat. Their mother walked them to the school door, and told them she'd be there when the final bell rang, like they were children again. 

"She'll forget, eventually," Perle said once their mother had left. "She always will. And then..."

Berte, suddenly tired, hugged her sister goodbye and sat down in her classroom, the first one there. 

Krugkoppe was tardy for school, the left side of his face a vivid smear of purple and red, and he had no sooner arrived than he was immediately punished for being late. His cap was still in her pocket, Berte realized, a limp reminder of all the things she now knew about him that he wanted to keep secret. 

She should give his hat back, she knew she should, it was cruel to keep it from him, especially since this was the only hat he had. It was wrong to withhold it from him. But handing it back to him was not enough to make right what had gone wrong for Krugkoppe, and Berte wanted to set things right. 

At lunch that day, Berte stayed inside with the girls for lunch. Velvela made a place for her and gave her a dessert that looked like a work of art from her family's new cook. Berte smiled warmly at her friend and thanked her for her gift, but she couldn't finish it: to Berte, it tasted only of the money from the tavern.

After school Anja was waiting at the entrance, and Perle and Berte obediently shuffled home behind her. While Perle spent the afternoon writing furiously in her diary, Berte pulled the hat out of her pocket and stared at it thoughtfully. Perhaps there was something she could do, after all. 

The hat itself was a simple design, and Berte was very good at needlework. For the next two days, trapped in her room, she worked on it non-stop. With only a little bit of digging in her mother's sewing basket for supplies, she managed to make a hat that looked much like Krugkoppe's old one, only this one was slightly larger and made with a warmer lining. 

It was nothing special for her to make. She made handiwork as gifts for Perle and Avrum. This was her way of making a small bit of Krugkoppe's life a little bit warmer, and if doing so also warmed Berte's life a little bit, then that was a pleasant accident, and certainly not her reason for doing so.

And now that the new one was made, she had no need of his old cap. The thing to do, the thing Berte should do, is throw the old cap into the rag basket. It was a schmatta of no value. She was too old to have a comfort-object to hold, like a baby. There was no point in carrying it around, especially -- carrying it around might lead someone to ask questions that she had no answer for, not even in the privacy of her own head.

And yet she couldn't throw it away. Couldn't, not wouldn't. The thought of doing so filled her with a dread she could not explain.

Instead, she put it in her drawers with her other winter clothes, back in the corner.

On the third day after her punishment began, Berte put the hat in Krugkoppe's desk while he was in the hallway during their midmorning break. If he found it that morning, she did not know, because she was not looking in his direction. But during lunch, she sat inside with the girls in a seat where she could see outside and look down on the boys, and she noticed the grey cap she had made sitting jauntily on his head, like a crown. 

A warm feeling came over her that she did not have the words for. And then, like a thunderbolt out of the clear blue sky, the word came. 

Oh, she thought.  _ That’s _ how I feel about him, then. 

She smiled then, but only for herself, and then turned to Velvela and asked her a question about her new dress.

\---

Winter came, and winter passed. Eventually, Anja again became civil and even loving towards her ungrateful daughters, and allowed them out of the house in the afternoon, as long as they told her where they were going and when they would come back. 

On the first really warm day of spring, Berte told her mother that she was going to the library, and she did. But unlike previous years, where she would dither over the three- or four-dozen books available to read, this time she merely grabbed the first book she found, and headed down to the river, to the area where she and Avrum had often played as children. 

There she saw Krugkoppe, his hat on his head like always, spread out with a stack of old newspapers, the Yiddish papers that were often read and then discarded by men who traveled. Intent on his reading, he did not hear her approach.

“It is pleasant down here, your place by the river,” Berte said, breaking his concentration, and he looked up at her in surprise.

“It’s not my place, it’s for everyone. If the river were private property, I’d have been kicked out long ago.” 

“So you would not mind if I read here, too, then?” Berte said.

“Suit yourself,” Krugkoppe said breezily, though his eyes watched her over the newspapers he was holding. 

Krugkoppe was sprawled on the best rock, one that had basked in the early spring sunlight all day and absorbed the heat from it. It would be proper and ladylike to sit in the shade of the tree, but it would also be much colder, and Berte was practical. She spread her shawl next to Krugkoppe instead. He shifted over without her saying a word, and she sat down to read.

“You know, it’s a funny thing, but my hat feels larger than it used to be,” Krugkoppe remarked after a while. 

Berte didn’t look up from her book. “Maybe your brain has shrunken.”

He snorted in laughter, and that was the last they spoke.

They continued reading in companionable silence, side-by-side but certainly not together. 

**Author's Note:**

> translator notes:
> 
> dafke - needlessly defiant  
> schlepper - literally a manual laborer, used in a derogatory fashion.  
> Froi - Mrs.  
> Mashiach - the Messiah, who has not come yet.  
> siman tov u’mazel tov = literally “good signs and good luck” (congratulations), this is a very common celebratory song.  
> goyische - Gentile  
> schmatta - rag  
> Yiddisher kop - Jewish head  
> nafkes - whores, specifically “women who like having sex” as opposed to “women who have sex for money”, which is a fun and exciting distinction that I want to investigate further.


End file.
